


Oh the Night's so Blue

by kindlystrawberry



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Gratuitous use of song lyrics, Love Confessions, M/M, Picnics, Post-Canon, Road Trips, Song Lyrics, Travel, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-03 06:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19458169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindlystrawberry/pseuds/kindlystrawberry
Summary: There were moments were Aziraphale suspected that the two of them might have slightly different definitions of the word “fun,” but when Crowley had flashed him that infuriatingly persuasive lopsided grin of his and reminded Aziraphale of how long it had been since he had had a good Tarte Normande, the angel had been decidedly sold.It had been a dreadfully long time.





	1. Best of Queen

Aziraphale had a very broad idea of infinity. He was immortal after all, and so not many things could feel repetitive to him. But for perhaps the umpteenth time this century alone, and a truly uncountable amount within his entire millennia of existence, he wondered how it was that his life was so filled with contradictions: heaven and hell, logic and emotion, the duality of love, ethereality and humanity. 

But, at the most present moment, his biggest contraction was this: as someone who had lived for literally thousands of years, and would live for thousands more, he quite literally had all the time in the world, and thus was rather patient; however, as someone who had become rather indoctrinated into British culture, driving more than half an hour somewhere seemed absolutely absurd to him, and a terribly cumbersome trip. 

Sure, they needn’t have traveled the “human” way— if one could call Crowley’s driving “human,” which Aziraphale definitely doubted— but there was actually something rather calming— after they left central London, and Aziraphale’s corporeal heart could stop suffering from fifty heart attacks at once— about it all when it was simply open road. With no one else to potentially crash into the demon’s driving almost felt normal. Almost.

Aziraphale could enjoy counting trees, commenting on how the land had or hadn’t changed since he’d last been to this area, marveling as they passed through the Channel Tunnel. Sure, the moment they had made it out the tunnel to the French side a nearly-driven-mad Aziraphale had absolutely demanded they get out at the nearest pit stop that would sell them any album that wasn’t _ Best of Queen,  _ (they had to argue for a bit on what to choose before ultimately settling on a lovely classic jazz set, which Aziraphale then made a note to remember to take it out from the Bentley’s glove compartment before a fortnight had passed), but otherwise the travel time actually passed quite nicely.

This was of course aided by the fact that after 6,000 years Crowley and Aziraphale had learned to be in each other’s company. This was even truer now that they could finally allow themselves to simply  _ be, _ without worrying about sides, or predestined purpose, or most of what had plagued them before. Every moment brought something new, and Aziraphale relished in it, whether it was comfortable silence, or an interesting bit of conversation. Sometimes they both hummed along to a tune, other times they bickered over whose memory was correct over past events, and all in all the drive was a pleasant one.

It even felt as though the Bentley had a metaphorical skip in its step, as it were.

A lovely sunset painted the sky as the last hour stretch of their drive kicked in, Normandy’s rolling fields and grazing livestock seeming to gently burn a glowing, brilliant orange under the last rays of the sun. By the time they pulled into their destination the evening was just drifitng over the cozy wooden cabin in the village of Bois Hérault.

When Crowley had suggested they take the Bentley over to a small town in Northwestern France for a weekend, Aziraphale had been absolutely thrilled. Of course, once he realized that Crowley not only had things planned for the trip but also refused to share the details, saying it would “ruin the fun,” the angel had started to feel some trepidation. There were moments where Aziraphale suspected that the two of them might have slightly different definitions of the word “fun.” But then the angel had been decidedly sold when Crowley had flashed him that infuriatingly persuasive lopsided grin of his and reminded Aziraphale of how long it had been since he had had a good Tarte Normande.

It had been a  _ dreadfully _ long time.

The gravel driveway churned beneath them like tides parting way for the Bentley’s tires when finally the car came to a full stop. They had arrived. For a moment neither of the passengers moved— they took a moment to stare at the soft moonlit glow of the old-fashioned wooden cottage in front of them. It had an apple tree next to the front porch and an intricately carved oak door. 

“Right, then,” Crowley said finally, bouncing the palms of his bony hands decisively on the steering wheel before getting out of the car. Aziraphale followed suit, and each of them respectively pulled out the bags they had brought their travel essentials in— of course, there was no need to pack anything urgent, since they could simply miracle whatever they needed instantly to their side from home, but Crowley had said that “packing something up and throwing it in the back of a car,” was the human way— and more importantly, the “fun” way— to do things.

This, of course, meant that Crowley had brought a satchel full of alcohol, and Aziraphale a briefcase full of books. 

They both nodded approvingly to the other’s luggage, and then made their way up the stairs and through the porch.

The wood creaked heavily underneath them, and when Crowley flicked on the entryway sprinkles of dust fell around them like a little snowstorm. A bat screeched from the roof at the sudden intrusion of his home and quickly flew terrified in a random direction. After it crashed against the wall a few times, Crowley miracled it to the other side so it could happily traverse the open air of nature the way God intended, he supposed. The air held the thick, nearly tangible musky scent of a wooden cabin, and all the furniture decorating the space around them was set in the taste of an old-fashioned maid, with faded yellow colors and outlandish floral patterns.

“Of course, of  _ course, _ it’s-” Crowley gestured vaguely, “This way— whatever this is. Bloody French countryside,” he griped, and Aziraphale could  _ hear _ the accompanying eye roll next to him.

“Oh yes,” the angel said decisively, unable to help the contented smile on his face that one could almost say appeared like a cheeky grin. “This will do quite nicely.”

Crowley groaned good-naturedly with a dramatic wave of his hands, but set down his things and went to explore further into the house. Aziraphale decided to go in the opposite direction and inspect the collection of books sitting in the living room.

“Oh  _ lord, _ ” Crowley called out from his side of the house. “There’s even lace doilies on the table. Angel, did you miracle this to be in your outdated taste, or is your Boss up there just really keen on making me lament the misfortunes of life in all the little ways?”

Aziraphale’s voice came out as affronted as he felt. “I had nothing to do with this, and I can tell you for sure that She is too busy dealing with other things than to worry about  _ annoying _ you, Crowley. No, I’m afraid that you simply have the bad luck of having chosen a cottage decorated by someone with,” he spotted a healthy collection of literary works by the Brontë sisters, “ _ marvelous _ taste, if I may say.” 

The demon mumbled some half-snarky remark that Aziraphale decidedly chose not to hear.

Upon further inspecting the house, Aziraphale came to the conclusion that he couldn’t be happier. The coffee and dining tables were in a matching deep, oak, the kitchen had the most lovely collection of china teacups and cast iron kettles, and the porch had two knit-blanket covered rocking chairs. He was rather sure that each new discovery had him grinning like a fool, but even Crowley’s complaining lost any bite to it, as the demon’s words were suddenly matched with an undeniably fond twitch of his lips, whenever he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking. 

He was, though. Always. Aziraphale always found himself looking at Crowley.

* * *

It was with no small effort that Crowley finally managed to drag the blond away from inspecting and delighting over every single item of house decor. Part of Crowley was worried the angel would get  _ ideas, _ and would come home to redecorate the bookshop to be even more old-fashioned than it currently was. Another part of him was desperately trying to maintain any sort of grip on his ability to keep his overwhelming feelings of fondness in check, but the way Aziraphale beamed so hard at such little, mundanely human things that he seemed to  _ glow _ beyond an ethereal light was making it increasingly difficult for Crowley to pretend that he didn’t have emotions, which was how he usually enjoyed pretending to be. 

Finally, though, with the promise of a special culinary treat and with as much demonic-tempting-techniques as he could muster— which, in this case, was really just him saying “Please, angel?”— he finally managed to get Aziraphale to go test out one of the rocking chairs. In the meanwhile, Crowley busied himself with slinking through the kitchen. He could always miracle the dish up, of course, but there was something so satisfying in popping a bottle of Calvados with his own two hands.

He rifled through the cabinets, and after passing a ghastly amount of silverware carved in the shape of kittens, found a suitably muted set of white china bowls. Some more searching yielded tulip-shaped wine glasses—  _ heaven  _ knows how passive-aggressive Aziraphale would get if anyone tried to serve him Calvados in anything else— and with a bit of demonic assistance he then procured a generous helping of apple sorbet in each bowl.

Precariously, of course, because second trips are for suckers, he balanced two cups, two bowls, and one bottle in between the sharp angles of his long limbs towards the back porch. He came upon Aziraphale trying to coax a moth to land on his finger with an intensely concentrated look on his face. Crowley stood there in silence, and if he glared a bit hard at the insect to get it to do as Aziraphale clearly was indicating, as was only polite of the little thing, of course, no one could really blame the demon— if moths suddenly lost their manners, the world would surely slip down the slope of a second apocalypse. It was worth it to see the look of radiant delight on the angel’s face when the bug did land, and again the not-at-all-adorably indignant pout on his face when Crowley ‘accidentally’ stumbled through the door a bit too loudly, startling the bug to flutter away.

“Oops,” he said, trying not to look too impishly pleased at the glare that Aziraphale shot him. “These damn creaky boards,” he said, with a shrug that quite appropriately seemed to say,  _ ‘C’est la vie.’ _

Aziraphale’s sour expression, in that infinitely open kaleidoscope way that he had about him when he was well and truly at peace, quickly changed into cheerful curiosity at the things in Crowley’s hands. 

“What do you have there, dear?” He asked, as he quickly went to relieve Crowley of what he was carrying, the two of them making quick work of setting it on the small coffee table in between the pair of rocking chairs. 

Crowley wasn’t quite able to help the grin that edged at the corner of his lips as he made a show of brandishing the label on the bottle, pouring them each a drink, and then some onto the miraculously-never-melting ice cream. He looked up through his sunglasses to see Aziraphale smiling knowingly at the ice cream bowl with that particular gleam in his eyes that he got just before devouring a dish. 

It took every ounce of self-control and imagination the demon-possessed to keep his hands from trembling as he finished pouring.

_ “Trou Normand,”  _ Aziraphale named in a dreamy tone of voice. He picked up “Well, not quite the traditional use for it, but we’re not much ones to follow traditions, are we?”

Crowley tried not to grin and almost succeeded. “I’d say we pick and choose.” He gave an aloof shrug of his shoulders.

“Cheers, my dearest.” Aziraphale’s voice was as warm and thick as the summer air between them as he held up his glass. His gaze was so openly tender that, quite indescribably, Crowley found himself taking off his sunglasses and setting them aside. Somehow, Aziraphale’s gaze only grew softer.

Crowley lifted his own glass and repeated, “Cheers.”

The clinking of glasses echoed across the small field in their backyard, only accompanied by the soft creaking of the utter comfort that came solely and specifically from rocking chairs, and the buzzing of glow-worms that dotted the night around them, like little universes on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can't I stop writing Good Omens fluff??? *Sweats at all the other unfinished WIPs I've had sitting around for months* 
> 
> The title is inspired by Frank Sinatra's "Somethin' Stupid."
> 
> Check out my ineffable playlist: https://avengured.tumblr.com/post/185567592111/playlist-some-tracks-somethin


	2. The Stars Get Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this story kinda got away from me, but I hadn't had it fully fleshed out as an idea anyway so I'm glad it did. Some good things come from being semi-delirious with the flu, I guess. Like plot.

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to be more surprised about— the actual activities that Crowley had planned for them, or how misplaced Aziraphale’s original trepidation had been.

The two of them used the term “weekend” loosely, of course, and in this case had employed the phrase “let’s go somewhere for the weekend,” simply to use the human expression more than to actually measure any length of time. Aziraphale hadn’t noticed how many days had actually passed, instead simply noting how lovely and surprisingly tranquil the entire affair had been.

Some days Crowley would sleep well past morning, coiled indulgently around Aziraphale’s chest and limbs as the angel read, until finally waking up to go eat dinner by the shore and sightsee a local firework festival. Other days they would wake up bright and early to pay a visit to the local farmer’s markets, sampling cheeses and gazing over the humans and the daily rituals that made up their lives. Sometimes Crowley would startle a goat just to watch it run away, forcing the town’s children to run after it (not that they seemed to mind, though the goat sent a few ill-mannered glares the demon’s way now and again). In retribution, balancing out the cosmic weight of good vs. evil, Aziraphale would put a small blessing on the chickens to lay many high-quality eggs.

Old habits died hard, even when the subverting of an apocalypse meant that they didn’t really have to do their job anymore.

On days where they stayed at home, Crowley would lay in the grass, sunbathing in his shirtsleeves like a contented house cat, or he’d play the small piano in the living room. Often times Aziraphale would catch the demon inspecting the local flora, no doubt trying to decide which plants he could propagate back to his flat. (One afternoon Aziraphale had off-handedly mentioned how charming the gorse flowers were this time of year. That night, over the game of checkers he had convinced the demon to play with him, Aziraphale found that clippings of those same flowers were quite suddenly decorating a small vase in the living room. It had brought a large smile to his face, but as soon as he commented on their appearance Crowley had pretended to have no idea to what Aziraphale was referring). 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, would usually sit out on the porch reading, or taking a serene stroll down the worn dirt path through the surrounding fields. One evening he tried to experiment in the kitchen, equipped solely with one of the house’s cookbooks, local groceries, and an almost absurd amount of stubborn determination. (That night, after the oysters he had tried so hard to prepare came out looking a rather unappetizing shade of green, they had decidedly trashed it, burned the garbage, and found, quite luckily, that the house two places over was throwing a neighborhood dinner party). 

Yes, it was indeed a rather lovely getaway. 

Aziraphale’s only complaint, if he had any, which he probably shouldn’t, and did try rather hard to pretend not to for the sake of being polite of course, was that in all their time so far in Bois Hérault (which, if Aziraphale really put to counting, simply for the sake of the argument, which he of course wasn’t having, was almost an entire two weeks), he had yet to have a Tarte Normande. It seemed that of all the little towns they visited, each patisserie was miraculously out of the coveted pastry. And, for a reason that was gnawing at Aziraphale’s insides in a peskily corporeal manner, no matter how hard he tried to bring about a miracle that the baker would suddenly find one last tart still sitting perfectly made in the oven, it simply wouldn’t happen. 

Maybe She really was trying to make the pair of them lament the misfortunes of life. Maybe this was their punishment for having subverted the apocalypse and “gone native.”

“Maybe your miracles have gotten too used to England? Gone solely regional.” Crowley offered with an unhelpful shrug, as he bought them pain-au-chocolats, madeleines, and macaroons in all of Aziraphale’s favorite flavors. “Or maybe your miracles are still upset with the whole guillotine business from before. Is it possible they’re on a French boycott?”

It was infuriating. 

Not the replacement pastries, of course, those were as exquisite as always. But there was something undeniably disappointing in coming to Normandy and not having local Tarte Normande, like finding that all the animals in the zoo were decidedly staying out of sight for the day, or not being rained on in London while trying to run to the metro. 

Aziraphale did his best not to complain, though. After all, Crowley had gone through all this trouble to make the trip so lovely. The angel hadn’t even recently mentioned France at all, or a desire to go on a trip, and somehow the fact that Crowley had sprung this as a surprise, as if knowing what Aziraphale would want to do before the angel himself even knew… or maybe, even, that what Crowley had wanted to do was so in sync with Aziraphale… it made his heart stutter in an awkwardly human way whenever he thought about it. 

So no, Aziraphale wasn’t going to mention the business with the tart to a seemingly oblivious Crowley. Whether or not he could keep himself from drooping his shoulders or sighing longingly when he wasn’t paying attention was another matter entirely, but he’d certainly try his best.

* * *

The pair sat eating pastries on a small iron bench outside. The humans occupying the hill-top cathedral nearby hardly paid any notice. A strong wind ruffled against the grass, carrying the sound of the ocean that crashed against the steep cliff face. At the Église Saint-Valery de Varengeville-sur-Mer, (one of those mouthful names that human languages so loved to boast over as the locals watched tourists squirm under the added pressure of each syllable), were two events: a wedding, with the procession having just finished filing inside in all their white-laced and cummerbund glory; and a funeral in the graveyard just outside, families clad in black standing somberly over ornately carved stone graves, listening to the echo of a eulogy.

Crowley couldn’t help but be transfixed by the whole ordeal. Two processions of entirely different commemorations (though the more cynical would say the ceremonies held more in common than they did apart), with only a shared stone brick wall between them, and neither party even seemed to notice. It felt like the perfect dichotomous microcosm of the universe. 

How fascinating. 

It was something the pair did often. It started off as what was simply part of their job— watching human nature, understanding them, trying to see the ways one could tempt the humans into darkness, or nudge them towards the light, respectively. But as the centuries went by, and especially as the Agreement formed between the two earthly agents, fudging the lines between their roles and making them realize how little celestial and demonic intervention actually did against the ever-flowing tide of free will, they came to simply  _ observe.  _ When both of them had sprung from existences that tried to set them into a black-and-white, into a decided, binary right and wrong, there was something so unique in watching the humans simply be… well, human. 

Other times, of course, it was boring as hell.

But with the angel next to him, all good intentions as he silently mouthed prayers of good fortune, of peaceful rest, of new beginnings, nothing was ever boring for Crowley. Not quite. He still had the crawling feeling that the cross at the top of the church was glaring at him, brighter than the noon’s high sun, but he was used to ignoring these things. Crowley absently wondered how he could get his hands on some anti-ethereal-light sunglasses.

The wind continued on, and so did the group in each respective gathering, until people were filtering through the church like normal, a trickling stream of quiet visitors. 

Crowley reached down to grab an Éclair only to notice that the box of pastries was almost entirely full. Sure, Aziraphale liked to eat slowly, savoring every individual flavor that a meal could possibly offer, but he would still  _ eat.  _ He had since finished his silent prayers, but instead of paying the Éclair in his hand much attention was simply staring off into the horizon. There was a slight crease in his brow, and a hint of a frown at his lips— actually, it was more of a pout, so much so that Crowley had to physically try and stop himself from reacting to how incredibly endearing it was.

“You alright there, angel?” 

Aziraphale made no indication that he had heard him, which was very strange. Even when the blonde was buried nose deep in one of his favorite novels he’d still grumble a sign or roll his shoulders to indicate that he was aware of Crowley’s presence.

Crowley gently bumped his shoulder against the angel’s. “Ground Control to Major Aziraphale?” Finally that seemed to do the trick, but Aziraphale would have given a less bewildered look had Crowley simply sprouted two extra heads and ran off screaming naked into the nearby wilderness. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Right,” Crowley said, unable to hold back the wry twitch of a smile. “‘Bebop.’” 

Aziraphale nodded absently, expression mostly returning to neutral. As he finally took a second bite of his pastry, though, the look in his eye was only mildly enthusiastic. 

“Everything alright?” He asked again.

This time the angel blinked at him, sounding nonplussed. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Crowley shrugged. “‘Dunno. Usually the sounds you make while eating are outright scandalous, so it’s strange to watch you eat so mundanely. It’s almost normal.”

A smile threatened Crowley’s lips again at the indignant huff that Aziraphale let out. 

“I do not make  _ ‘scandalous’  _ noises when I eat.”

This time the demon grinned outright. “Oh, you most definitely do.”

“I do  _ not _ .”

“Do too,” Crowley’s voice was not unlike the one a toddler used when picking a fight on the playground.

With a little  _ “harumph,” _ the angel went back to munching at his Éclair, reaching down to grab a second.

_ That’s more like it, _ Crowley couldn’t help thinking, unaware of the fond turn the smile on his face had taken.

The two of them continued their playful bickering back and forth. If any humans did notice the two of them they wouldn’t see supernatural entities on an iron bench, but instead a pair bickering like an old married couple, somehow making the rolling hills and infinite horizon around them seem like a cozy, intimate spot made for just the two of them.

And maybe, for just a bit, that wasn’t too far from the truth.

* * *

“Mmm, yes,” Aziraphale mumbled, snapping out of his reverie and taking a half-second to recall the entirety of their conversation so as to be able to respond properly. “Though I agree that Mr. Astaire’s dancing had a certain ‘dapper’ quality that no one else could match, I have to say Mr. Kelly’s choreography always managed to be impressively athletic without ever compromising elegance.” 

He caught the slight flick of Crowley’s eyes from behind his glasses, as if aware that Aziraphale’s mind had momentarily gone elsewhere. However, the demon replied nothing other than, “Bit of a diva, though.”

“They always are,” Aziraphale mumbled, eyes sliding back to the thicket of forest that towered over their narrow stretch of road. For a moment the only sound was Crowley softly humming along to the stereo’s jazz, matched by the purr of the Bentley.

Aziraphale couldn’t help wondering when the car’s sounds had come to feel so undeniably  _ familiar _ . Or if there was ever a time since its initial acquisition that stepping into it hadn’t felt like he was coming home— much more than going back to heaven had ever felt, in all honesty. The car was cozy, warm, and clean, but not in the sterile, unforgivingly cold way that heaven was clean. It was in the manner of tenderness that came uniquely from caring for a beloved space, from putting time and effort and  _ love _ into each nook and corner. It was in the way that the Crowley-reserved spot in Aziraphale’s chest was, the spot that felt oddly like it had the same placement as a human’s heart.

Aziraphale watched as a sigh he hadn’t realized he had let out left a fleeting smudge against the window. 

It was decidedly their last day— evening, by now— in Normandy. Tomorrow morning they would set off on the drive back to London. It wasn’t that Aziraphale was unhappy to go home. He had spent nearly 6,000 years traveling the human earth, and to have a corner of the world (no matter how minuscule in the grand scheme of things) in Soho to call his own was a gift he treasured greatly. 

He, without entirely realizing it, cast a glance over to the man next to him behind the wheel, who seemed thrilled to be going over a hundred miles per hour down a hill. Who was always next to him, whether physically or otherwise. 

His bookshop was one of two gifts that Aziraphale treasured greatly.

The angel had enjoyed this trip France, thoroughly, but he wouldn’t miss it. He couldn’t, knowing that they had, now more than ever, all the time in the world to come back whenever they’d fancy it. No, he was feeling relatively glum for another reason, one that he found rather irrationally eating at his attempts at a chipper mood. 

He had barely even been aware that the car had stopped. He glanced around, curiosity momentarily superseding his contemplations. They had taken a turn off the road and were now in the middle of a wide, grassy clearing. The waning crescent moon just barely shone above them in a haze, and a good distance away he could make out the outline of a castle, torchlight illuminating the humans merrymaking through windows. 

Aziraphale was about to reach for the car door when Crowley put a hand on his other arm to stop him. Aziraphale couldn’t help staring down at the contact in brief shock, before looking up to meet the other’s eyes. 

The demon seemed uncharacteristically nervous, though in that very subtle hiding way that Aziraphale could only recognize after having known him long enough. 

“Er—” Crowley started, “Just, uh, don’t look out the window too much and— give me a few minutes. Right, then. Be right back.”

He turned to leave, and now it was Aziraphale’s turn to interrupt him.

“My dear.” Crowley turned, and Aziraphale found himself softly reaching up to let his hands hover over the other’s sunglasses, a silent question. When Crowley made no move to stop him, Aziraphale took them off and started cleaning them with the fabric square in his breast pocket. “Don’t know how you could see with these on, especially on a night like this,” he heard himself fussing. He glanced up, still on his task of wiping off the smudges, and found Crowley smiling, his sharp edges rounded off to be impossibly soft. The demon didn’t say anything as he got out of the car.

When Aziraphale was done cleaning he held the glasses in the palms of his hands. His thumb traced absent patterns along the metal texture of the temples. 

He and Crowley hadn’t really  _ talked _ since the whole almost-end-of-the-world business. They had simply drifted together, which he supposed was just the way they had always been. First it was when he thought his bookshop had burnt down, and he had taken up Crowley on his offer of a place to stay. Then they had swapped appearances to get out of trouble from their respective head offices… and through that, by no small miracle, had managed to find a breath of peace. 

Even after that, though, Aziraphale had kept staying at Crowley’s. Then, naturally, they started eating out together more, Crowley lounged around the bookshop often, usually either napping or rather handily using humans’ ophidiophobia to keep a few peskily persistent customers from buying anything. Suddenly Aziraphale was bringing books to Crowley’s, and Crowley brought plants to Aziraphale’s, and then they were cooking together, sharing wine together, Crowley attempting in vain to explain why he liked certain human shows so much. Before he knew it, almost every night ended with Crowley curled, sleeping against Aziraphale as the angel read.

A handful of times he even slept himself.

He wouldn’t have it any other way. Well, except, they still hadn’t  _ talked _ about anything. A part of Aziraphale understood that intrinsically there was no need to— he was very happy with these developments, and they seemed to happen as naturally as water flows downstream. Despite this, however, another part of him— the painfully  _ human _ part of him, no doubt— couldn’t help but crave… confirmation, he supposed. An explanation. A promise. Though he knew that sides were blurred and loyalties refocused, towards the truth this time, a part of him was still worried that at any moment the ground would open up and swallow his favorite and only snake-demon, taking him away forever.

Aziraphale could hardly stand the thought.

He found himself at the precipice of a rather sharp downward spiral when he jumped at a sudden noise. Crowley was knocking at the window next to him, a silly smile etched onto his features. His expressions were infuriatingly impassive at the best of times, but with his glasses off, his golden slitted eyes really made him seem so much more expressive. Or maybe he was, for perhaps the first time, just very relaxed. 

The demon stood back, rocking absently on his heels and hands resting in the tightness of his pockets as Aziraphale slowly opened the door. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but Aziraphale suddenly felt the extreme urge to take an almost  _ annoying _ amount of time to get out of the car. 

He slid out each individual foot and leg onto the grass, smoothed down creases on his pants, stood, smoothed down creases on the breast of waistcoat, brushed away imaginary dust from the seat, smoothed down creases on his sleeves, and took painstaking care in closing the door of the Bentley. Crowley was shooting him a scrutinizing look, but otherwise said nothing. Aziraphale simply turned to walk as if everything was perfectly normal, but then stopped quite suddenly when he realized he didn’t actually know what they were doing here. Crowley had refused to say, had only asked him to come. Had only asked  _ ‘Do you trust me, angel?’  _ and, well, how could he refuse that?

_ More than anything. Infinite times over, _ he had wanted to say.  _ But of course,  _ is what he had settled for. Crowley had still looked incredibly pleased then.

He had something of that look now, the ghost of a grin on his lips as he gestured an arm towards the field. “This way.”

Almost entirely instinctively Aziraphale found his arm reaching out to rest against the crook of Crowley’s elbow. Old habits, and all that. When he realized what he had done he coughed slightly and started walking as if it was the most casual thing in the world, letting Crowley guide them. Aziraphale managed to peek a glance from the very corner of his vision at the other next to him and noticed the slight tint of red at Crowley’s neck. They continued to walk completely normally, and it really did feel so natural to have his arm tucked into Crowley’s. It always had, in some way.

* * *

Crowley was acting, like always, perfectly cool and suave. The embodiment of total composure, of  _ badassery,  _ slinking around casually down the grass meadow, a swagger in his step as he lead the one being in the entirety of existence that he cared for above all else and would do anything for, towards the surprise he had set up for him. Slowly but surely, with infinite caution, unbearing the furled and muddled thing that was his vulnerability.

He shuddered at even the thought of the word.

But the angel on his arm didn’t seem to notice. No, he was too busy staring at what was in front of him, almost gaping. Crowley bit his lip in a micro-movement, trying not to snicker at how surprised the angel looked. There, on the grass, haloed by the light of the moon and a precariously lit candle or two was a simple picnic blanket. It was covered in baguettes, cheeses, grapes, apples, and strawberries, quiches, and other assorted bites of food. There was an old-fashioned record player, and next to it a straw basket that had two bottles of wine peaking out. Alongside those was a large, freshly-made Tarte Normande that Crowley had been saving on getting just for tonight. 

He felt Aziraphale take in a breath next to him, and Crowley tried to keep his face impassive, despite the peskering heat he could feel crawling under his skin. The demon absently wished for his sunglasses— but he realized it wasn’t that a need to protect himself so much as a knee-jerk reaction against opening himself up. But he couldn’t wall himself off, couldn’t let that happen. Not after everything that had happened in the past eleven years. In the past month. The past days.

“What’s all this?” The angel said, a little breathlessly.

Crowley’s shrug was aloof, as if it were really nothing. Which was true, of course. The semi-former agent of hell hadn’t spent the entirety of multiple nights pouring over local guide-books and finding suggestions to put together the freshest and best assortment he could. Hadn’t chosen that dreadfully old-fashioned looking picnic blanket in a town’s shop because of how close the pattern looked to that damned tartan the angel so endearingly loved. Not at all.

“Oh, you know.” He gestured vaguely at the ensemble, which he hadn’t spent a ridiculous amount of time on. Aziraphale gave him a look that indicated he most certainly did not know. “Things,” Crowley added helpfully, in his humble opinion.

Aziraphale thinned his lips at him, but the look in his eyes was so terribly fond that it held no bite behind it. Even still, Crowley cleared his throat. The angel went to kneel down, and Crowley rocked back on his heels, hands having found themselves yet again squeezing semi-awkwardly into his pockets. Aziraphale patted the spot next to him, and Crowley hunkered down. Suddenly some unknown force dug into his thoughts like a fishing hook and pulled them out, a rambling mess flopping about out of water.

“You know, you mentioned before you wanted a picnic and the Ritz some day. And when the end of the world almost came around I found myself thinking ‘damn, we never really got to do that.’ And then we, uh,” Crowley vaguely motioned again, too-sharp limbs moving almost restlessly to try and make up for what he couldn’t quite bring himself to put into words. “Well, the  _ world _ didn’t, you know. End, that is.” He made something of an exploding motion with his hands. “And then we did the Ritz— So I thought, ‘Picnic next, I guess.’ And, well, here we are. You know. Picnicking, or whatever.” 

There was a brief pause. “Oh— wait.” Crowley dug into the basket, looking for something, and then there was a rather sharp clanking noise, followed by “shit, fuck,” as he rifled on. A few more swears later and he pulled out a record that he then put it into the player. Opening notes wafted out, and soon Frank Sinatra’s sonorous voice filled in the crevices of the sticky, summer night air. 

_ I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me.  _

“Oh, Crowley.” The words fell softly off Aziraphale’s lips, like a feather floating downwards. He could feel the angel’s gaze boring into him, and forced himself to look.

_ And if we go someplace to dance I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me. _

It was a gaze so openly tender, so unabashedly affectionate, so close to being full of the emotion that Crowley refused to let himself even  _ think _ about seeing in the other for so long, that this time Crowley itched desperately for his sunglasses. For something to shield him.

_ And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two, _

The idiotic part of him wanted to say ‘Welp, ta,’ and go running in the other direction, leaving the car and just hitchiking back to their small log house so he’d have time to bury all these feelings, as was propper of course. But that was the Crowley that ran. The demon that deserted, that hid, the one that fell. He wouldn’t do that again. Not now. 

_ And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like, ‘I love you.’ _

And anyway, what was time good for? He had had over 6,000 years to bury his feelings and yet he never quite could, could he? One pleading look, or beaming smile, or grouchy mumble, and he was a mess all over again. It felt like the near-miss of armageddon had cut loose whatever had been wedged between them. Ever since then, the bond that had always kept them together, had always brought Crowley gravitating towards Aziraphale, had now reforged itself, knotted double and triple and so forth until they were bound by the seams. And the most mind-toggling part of it all was that Aziraphale wasn’t hesitating. Hell, he seemed much less nervous than Crowley himself.

_ I can see it in your eyes, that you despise the same old lies you heard the night before _

Aziraphale was spreading cheeses and fruits onto bread, was commenting on the “lovely, fresh” texture of the bread. Of the crunch one “simply couldn’t get anywhere else.” If Crowley wasn’t so in his own head he’d notice that Aziraphale’s tone was also slightly off, like he was trying to stay tethered away from being lost in thought. 

_ And though it´s just a line to you, for me it´s true, it never seemed so right before. _

Damn, the blanket was suddenly too small. He should have gotten the bigger size. Of course, Aziraphale looked perfect on it, he was perfection, the fact proven through his strengths and only further solidified by his faults. Crowley on the other hand felt so lanky in comparison, his corporeal form all edges and corners, sharp, long, bony. His legs felt squished into the confines of the blanket, the air suddenly hot around them in a way he couldn’t pass off as simply through summer.

_ I practice every day to find some clever lines to say to make the meaning come through. _

Of course, Crowley had always done things for Aziraphale. He enjoyed it. Not to get anything from the angel, particularly, he had barely ever dared to let himself think like that, and hadn’t ever really wanted to. No, he just loved seeing the way the angel’s face lit up and put the sun to shame. He relished in the fact that  _ he _ had caused that joy, that his actions could make someone as true and good and genuinely-loving as Aziraphale smile, because of  _ him.  _ When Aziraphale beamed, Crowley felt like a man dying of thirst being thrown head first into an oasis. 

_ But then I think I´ll wait until the evening gets late and I´m alone with you. _

And yet suddenly, after the faux-end of the world, the oasis no longer felt like a half-dreamt up concoction. It felt inexplicably, truly, and terrifyingly  _ real.  _

_ The time is right,  _

Crowley felt like he should run, should take off in the other direction. He was scared to let himself  _ hope _ , a word that he almost loathed, but instead he dove head first.

_ Your perfume fills my head,  _

He felt he couldn’t control himself anymore. 

_ The stars get red,  _

Sure, he was the tempter, the  _ original _ tempter, but the thought that maybe, just maybe in time Aziraphale might have come to feel something towards him, an ounce of his all-encasing love directed specifically at the demon, the presence that made him feel warm, and content, and at peace, the one that made him infinitely stronger; that temptation made the apple of Eden, in comparison, feel as desirable as a bag of sweaty gym socks.

_ And oh the night´s so blue _

But that voice in his head hissed that he shouldn’t be ridiculous. They had come so far, he should be careful not to push more, should he break what he was just barely grasping. He couldn’t hope that Aziraphale—

_ And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like, _

“I love you.”

Crowley blinked. It took him an embarrassingly long second for him to realize that it hadn’t, in fact, been Frank Sinatra’s voice that had completed that line, but instead Aziraphale’s, in some cosmic-joke version of harmony. How odd human bodies were, that they could keep going even though Crowley was doubtlessly sure that his heart had stopped beating entirely just then.

“I always have you know, my dearest.”

Crowley’s eyes slid to Aziraphale’s, wide slits the only part of him that dared to move. The angel’s eyes were open and honest and absolutely resolute. They were soft, almost like a caress, and yet behind them was that iron will that he somehow always possessed. 

The blonde fidgeted slightly, but continued, now staring down at their hands. Since when had they been centimeters apart from touching? 

“I haven’t always realized I did, and I haven’t always been true to that, haven’t always stood strong against the fear and worry that plagued us— that plagued  _ me _ from…” Aziraphale’s eyes went skybound, and didn’t need to clarify any further. “But I know I always have.” Crystal blue eyes slid back to Crowley’s. “And I certainly think I always will.”

_ I love you, _ Frank Sinatra seemed to echo.

Crowley reached out and grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and squeezed, just slightly. Not a vague saunter downwards. A leap.

_ I love you…  _

Aziraphale squeezed back.

_ I love you…  _

“I…” Crowley mumbled, their lips having gravitated towards each other like celestial bodies and now were only a hairsbreadth apart. 

Aziraphale nodded, and they were kissing, soft, and reverent, and in it was a silent promise that this was the first, but would be far from the last.

For one of the few times ever in his life, Crowley felt well and truly blessed.

_ I love you. _

BREAK

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what time it was, and he found himself particularly unable to care. They had had a long, lovely night for the picnic before getting back in the car. They had popped into the cottage one last time to straighten everything out. Blankets were folded, silverware was cleaned, a few new books were added to the collection in the living room. A simple note was left in the entryway’s table, with a large sum of tip money, and was signed:

‘ _ Many thanks,  _

_ A.Z.F. & A.J.C. _ ’ 

Daybreak greeted them as they slid into the car and got back on the road, like the Earth’s version of a lazy ‘Hello.’ Serenity passed between the two in the car, enveloped them like warm fleece. For once Aziraphale made no protest against Crowley’s driving, and actually enabled it just a bit (though he would never admit it, even under thorough questioning) as he twined their hands together over the central console. The angel used his unoccupied hand to free the car’s newest album out of its sleeve and slide it into the player.

It was, all in all, a perfect morning, and the best conclusion to the trip he could ask for. 

“ _ Oh!”  _ Aziraphale suddenly cried, making Crowley nearly jump through the roof of his beloved vehicle. “Bloody hell!”

Crowley shot him the most baffled look he had ever made in his life, struggling between juggling his focus on the pedestrian-heavy road and the angel next to him, but Aziraphale barely noticed, too busy rubbing at the bridge of his nose. 

Crowley put a hand against the blonde’s arm, his voice slightly concerned but much more surprised (almost amused, as he always was by the angel’s more blasphemous choice of language) than anything else. The music player made soft whirring noises as it loaded up. “What is it, angel?”

Queen’s  _ Crazy Little Thing Called Love  _ started humming through the stereo.

“I forgot to take the jazz album out,” Aziraphale mumbled rather miserably.

He noticed the devilish grin too late as the Crowley reached towards the knob and set the volume blasting.

“Don’t you dare!” 

Crowley laughed, almost cackled, and Aziraphale was swatting away his bony hands. The demon started singing along, and obnoxiously loudly at that, and no matter how much Aziraphale twisted the knob back down the volume it wouldn’t go lower.  _ Damn loyal car. _

It was going to be a  _ long _ trip back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this chapter is also inspired by the aforementioned Frank Sinatra song, "Somethin' Stupid" and that is the same song that I use the lyrics of throughout the last bit of the chapter. Can you tell I'm using their immortality to project my love for and random knowledge of Classic Hollywood? No? Good.
> 
> Comments and kudos appreciated!


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